Making Sense of the Madness
by Literature.And.Lattes
Summary: Modern AU where Sandor and Sansa have separated after Sandor accuses Sansa of infidelity. A short one-shot that gives both perspectives. PLEASE READ & REVIEW
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first story in about two years, so please bear with me! I've kind of lost my inspiration and desire to write, but I think it has come back recently, so consider this a trial run of my newfound motivation. SanSan will forever be my favorite pairing, and although I know I never finished my last story about them, I feel compelled to start anew.**

 **I'm gonna try my hand at a Modern AU, which is not what I would usually write, so all criticism, constructive or otherwise, is welcome! PLEASE REVIEW-THEY LITERALLY MAKE MY DAY**

 **(As usual, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin)**

SANDOR

His frame still shook with anger, his fists barely restrained from punching the nearest wall. Never a man for tears, Sandor Clegane was prone to expressing sadness through aggressive anger. Of course. Always anger. His favorite coping mechanism. His worst attribute.

Perhaps it is for the best. Or at least that is how he rationalizes his situation to himself. _You never deserved her. She deserves a handsome, rich, and romantic fucker who would buy her flowers and take her to fancy restaurants with wine more expensive than your entire paycheck. Yes, perhaps it is better that you hurt her. That you pushed her away and ruined whatever fantasy she was entertaining of you as a gentleman. She can move on, find another, marry him and start a family._

A small voice in the back of Sandor's mind nagged him, though. _What about you? Can you move on?_ He refused to even consider it. She was the only one. But he could live without. He would live alone but he would live.

The night gradually faded and Sandor realized with a start that this was the first night in nearly a year that his bed had not been filled with Sansa Stark's pale form and flaming red hair. He himself had not even entered his bedroom, too angry and upset to leave the window where he had stared blankly for hours, his huge hand braced against the pane. As the sun slowly rose, it dawned on Sandor that he still had half of Sansa's clothes tucked into the small wooden dresser in his own home. She would come to get them eventually, and once she did he would likely never see her again. He felt the urge to hide those clothes and prolong the inevitable moment of separation from the woman who consumed his mind and body.

This separation came upon him like a freight train as he heard the banging of a small hand on his door not more than an hour later. His body instinctively lurched for the door. A part of him entertained the daydream that it was Sansa coming home from work, and had merely forgotten her key to his house. This fantasy Sansa would walk in and drop her black tote bag beside the door as she always did, then run into Sandor's arms in a lover's embrace. In Sandor's fantasy he would never let go.

Reality got in the way. The Sansa Stark found behind the door had no love in her eyes, only hardness and hurt, and lips pursed in pain rather than parted in laughter. This Sansa Stark had no intention of running into Sandor's arms.

SANSA

"I've come for my things." She struggled to keep her voice indifferent, uncaring. She tried to ignore the pained expression on her ex-lover's face, knowing her resolve would crumble the moment she met his eyes.

"Sansa-"

"Don't." Her voice quavered slightly. "Don't make this harder than it already is. I'm going to get my things, and then I'm going to leave. I have work this morning."

Sansa pushed past Sandor, trying to ignore her urge to wrap her arms around the huge torso she brushed past on her way to the familiar bedroom. Her clothes were exactly as she had left them; folded neatly in the bottom two drawers of the dresser the two of them shared. She had to reach beneath the bed to snag a plain black pair of panties, trying not to think of the steamy circumstances that had gotten them there two nights ago. So much had changed in those 24 hours.

Sandor stood in the doorway, blocking her exit, and Sansa was forced to raise her eyes to meet his, hoping they were as defiant as she sought to make them.

"I don't want you to leave. Fuck everything I said, I don't care if you're screwing every guy on the block, I still want you." Sandor's voice had a hint of pleading in it, but still had the rough crassness that never seemed to leave his tone.

"It's too late. I'm sure you can do better than a lying whore who can't keep her legs shut." Sansa spat these words at him, her own anger from the night before surfacing.

"Oh don't play innocent here Sansa. I found you out. You were fucking Ramsay Bolton behind my back and now you're acting like I'm the bad guy. I would never do that to you, I would never betray you like that." Sandor's voice almost broke at the word 'betray', and Sansa's eyes automatically filled with tears.

"You don't know what happened. Don't pretend to know Sandor. Don't pretend to understand." Sansa's voice was now completely broken and a ragged sob burst up. She knew how much Sandor hated to see her cry, but in the moment she did not even care.

"Oh, I don't understand, do I?" Sandor's voice was venemous, and his anger once more took on a dangerous undertone. "I guess he just had something I didn't. Knew all the right places to touch. Knew all the right words to say. An old dog like me could never compare, I'm sure."

Sansa's crying had turned to hyperventilation and with another cry of sadness she pushed past Sandor's broad frame and raced for the door. Sandor caught the back of her coat however, and spun her around to look at him.

"Is this it then? Are these our last words to each other? Words of hate?" His voice was raised, yet at the last word it lowered to a pained tone. "Sansa please. I forgive you. I'll do whatever it takes to make it right."

"He raped me, Sandor." Sansa had stopped crying, though her breathing was still labored, and her blue eyes were once more hard as sapphires. "He took me by force. He used me like a whore. And I was too scared to tell you because I was afraid you would blame me."

Sandor's jaw dropped as his mouth formed a perfect 'o' shape. His arm was frozen clasped on Sansa's shoulder, but she wretched free and flitted out the door before he could say another word. Leaving behind nothing but a few stray red hairs across his carpet, a slight scent of roses in the air, and a burning hatred for Ramsay Bolton instilled in Sandor that surpassed any other emotion.

 **I apologize for this very very rough one-shot. I kind of just sat down to write and this was the outcome. I hope you guys like it though! PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW, I AM BEGGING YOU. AT LEAST TELL ME YOU HATE IT. I have a couple ideas of how to continue this story, but I don't want to keep it going unless you guys express an interest, so please let me know (:**


	2. Chapter 2

**As usual, life has gotten in the way of me writing, and yet another story has gone unfinished. This is my weak attempt at continuing this SanSan story, though I won't deny that my resolve to finish has weakened. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this next installment, and as always, please leave any criticism\suggestions you deem fit (:**

SANDOR

Long after Sansa had slammed the door behind her, and the frantic clicking of her pumps as she rushed down the tiled hallway had faded away, he stood staring at the back of the door.

Rape. The very word sounded disgusting and rough. He was by no means a saint, and had no qualms about maiming and hurting and killing if the situation demanded it, but rape was something even he couldn't stomach. And the thought of any man, particularly the slimy Ramsay Bolton, performing such a wretched and cruel act sent his stomach positively rolling.

And Sansa. _Sansa_. He had the sudden urge to throw up. The anger focused on Ramsay was quickly overcome by the realization of his own role in her awful ordeal. Him, nearly seven feet of solid muscle, infamous for his brutality and strength, had failed to protect the one thing that really truly mattered. No, instead he had let his own jealous anger get the better of him. He had lashed out with harsh words, condemning Sansa for another man's sins. _Are you really any better than Ramsay? Surely you hurt her just the same with your drunk anger and cold hearted insults._

Self-loathing was an emotion he had dealt with for nearly his entire life, and he had doubted his worth as a human being many times before, and only Sansa's compassion and kind heart had ever softened the intensity of the inward disgust he felt. But now the fires of hatred burned brighter than ever before. Hatred for Ramsay, yes, but also hatred of himself. He knew, perhaps in some part of him, that the real villain was Ramsay, but the only tragedy he could focus on was the fact that he had unknowingly let Ramsay have his way with Sansa and, even after that, had failed to provide support for Sansa.

But there was something he could do. _You don't get to have Sansa back, dog, but you can kill the man that hurt her_. Without a second thought, he wrenched open the apartment door and left the apartment, slamming the door so hard behind him that the rusty chain lock rattled on long after his form had raced out, driven by pure hurt and hatred.

SANSA

The decision to go into work that day had been a bad one. Surely being raped by Ramsay Bolton and later breaking up with the one man she had truly ever loved was cause enough to not perform her barista duties for one day? The very thought of serving her customers their lattes and double shot americanos while she felt utterly shattered was almost laughable.

But of course there was no stopping a determined Sansa Stark. _You know how to put on a show. You know how to pretend to be happy. You did it for years, so do it now._

"You okay, Sansa?" Jeyne's concerned question was so simple, so uncomplicated, that Sansa was momentarily stunned. _When have I ever felt merely okay?_ She was so used to feeling in extremes that the concept of such a neutral emotion was completely foreign to her. She was either blissfully happy with Sandor or overwhelmingly broken, as she was now. There was no inbetween.

"Yeah. Um..just a rough night with Sandor. I'll be fine, don't worry about it." She tried to sound unaffected and mask her pain for tiredness, and thankfully the comment earned her merely a sympathetic look from her manager before they both turned to the stream of customers flocking toward the register.

As the day wore on, she remained acutely aware of the fact that she was not by any means "fine." Every male customer with black hair sent her heart thudding in her chest, and every set of pale blue eyes caused her breath to catch. _He's not Ramsay. He's not Ramsay. He's not Ramsay._

With a shock, she realized that this could very well be her life. She could go each day seeing her rapist in nearly every man she encountered. She could never move past this, never recover. _Why did he have to rape you? Why couldn't he have just killed you? Wouldn't that have been easier?_

 **I know that there was not much plot development in this chapter, but I felt the need to at least give a little bit of a look into Sandor and Sansa's emotions. I hate stories with all action and no analysis, so I hope you all don't mind a bit of an angsty chapter.**


End file.
